


animus possidendi

by livenudebigfoot



Category: John Wick (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Avi is a DA, Dubcon Kissing, Extra Treat, M/M, Smoking, evil flirting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-23
Updated: 2020-02-23
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:20:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22700854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/livenudebigfoot/pseuds/livenudebigfoot
Summary: He prepares to prosecute Viggo Tarasov the way mountaineers prepare for Everest. Like he’s a challenge that might kill him.
Relationships: Avi/Viggo Tarasov
Comments: 10
Kudos: 40
Collections: Chocolate Box - Round 5





	animus possidendi

**Author's Note:**

  * For [asuralucier](https://archiveofourown.org/users/asuralucier/gifts).



> _An divergent AU where Avi is a DA and Viggo is on trial._  
> 
> 
> Happy Chocolate Day <3

He prepares for Viggo Tarasov the way mountaineers prepare for Everest. Like he’s a challenge that might kill him.

There’s a long string of cops, criminals, and city officials who could attest to that. Would attest to that, if they weren’t dead or missing. The Tarasovs don’t fuck around, Avi’s found. If you’re a threat, if you’re even thinking about becoming a threat, you disappear quickly and completely. Or bloodily and messily.

So, as Avi’s preparing to become a threat to Viggo Tarasov, he’s not unaware of the danger. His ego’s not that big.

It’s just big enough that he thinks he’ll win.

He’s been thinking about this for a long time. Long before Evgeni Stepanov, professional scumbag and business associate of Viggo Tarasov, was found dead and waterlogged in the Hudson, badly beaten, Viggo’s partial fingerprint on his throat. Before that, everyone said he should go after big brother Abram because he’s the weak link, the unambitious one, the one that bends under pressure. Or else everyone said he should go after the son, Iosef, with his laundry list of petty crimes, because Viggo would suffer watching his son be put away. But Avi was willing to wait for the opportunity to go after the man himself. He likes to set his sights higher. 

Viggo does too. His style is bold, loud, aggressive. His criminal web is intricately and finely woven, secret and far-reaching and terrible.

It’s impressive, if you admire that kind of thing.

The trouble with Viggo’s web is, he’s in the center of it. He’s what holds it all together. If he unravels, so does everything else.

So Avi lays out his suit for court in the morning and stays up late with his evidence and his arguments, weaving his own web.

* * *

Avi’s seen pictures, of course. His exhibits, yet to be presented, are full of them. Diligent investigators have photographed Viggo Tarasov from just about every angle in a variety of incriminating locations and Avi, in the course of his own diligence, has studied those photographs. Still, there’s something about seeing him in person. Presence, Avi guesses.

Viggo’s dressed himself carefully for the occasion: dove gray suit, navy shirt, a gold tie elegantly knotted. He’s looking manicured: hair cut and styled, beard trimmed, nails filed into clean and neat rounds. Even the tattoos creeping out from under the cuffs of his finely tailored jacket seem almost elegant. It’s a far cry from how he looks in his mugshot.

It would’ve been good to see Viggo step into the courtroom like that: bruised, hung over, looking every inch the son of a bitch that he is. Avi knows about Viggo’s fashion sense, his proclivity for deep reds and purples, for peculiar fabrics, for unexpected cuts. To a guy who cares so much about his appearance, an orange jumpsuit must be hell.

Right now, he looks relaxed and interested. He leans forward, listens intently to the opening arguments. Something about the colors of his suit and shirt make his eyes sparkle, uncomfortably blue and clever. Incidental eye contact with Viggo feels conspiratorial, like a private joke shared between friends. Avi tries not to let his gaze linger.

There’s a disquieting weight to Viggo’s presence, a power that’s obvious even when he’s still. It’s like he has his own gravitational pull.

Viggo seems content to let his defense do the talking. When he speaks to his lawyer, his voice is deep but soft, his words precisely chosen. Polite, but saying no more than he needs to. It’s a careful performance. But then, Viggo’s seen his share of courtrooms and he has an attentive audience.

The family is there, of course: his son Iosef (barely out of his teens, goggle-eyed and terrified), his brother Abram (slick-haired and stoic, his nerves only apparent in the tremble of his hands), and the dark-suited men who fill the bench on either side of them, an impassible, protective wall. Avi recognizes most of them. Some of them are actual cousins and nephews. All of them are so wrapped up in Tarasov business - Tarasov dirt - that they’re tied in by blood. Theirs or someone else’s. 

Then there’s the usual professionally-interested audience of reporters and gawkers that always appears when a notorious crime lord goes to trial. They’re a polite and well-trained crowd, only disturbing the proceedings with an occasional cough or a particularly loud flurry of note-taking.

The segment of the gallery that Avi’s most interested in is totally silent. He spies them dotted throughout the court: alone or in pairs, fashionably dressed in dark clothes, some tattooed, some marked. 

The underworld has surfaced.

Avi knows Viggo’s affiliations. All of them. He sits just over the borderline between the regular criminal underworld and something else. A world of untouchables, of the impossibly powerful. Viggo’s a big fish in Avi’s world, a comparatively small fish in the other world. But if Avi brings him down? However small, there will be ripples. Shockwaves. 

The eyes of the assembled court are on Viggo Tarasov.

But Viggo Tarasov’s eyes are on Avi. 

* * *

He didn’t expect them to fold so quickly. Viggo’s counsel hasn’t impressed Avi, exactly, but he’s competent enough. A little nervous, maybe, but Avi’s been assuming that’s more to do with the small army of goons sitting in the row behind him than how the actual case is going.

Still, the man asked in hushed whispers that they meet in a quiet room after court adjourned, and Avi’s not about to say no to a white flag. At the very least, he’d be happy to hear this man beg.

When he arrives, he’s not expecting to find Viggo sitting in the chair beside his lawyer, his hands cuffed to the table. 

Avi gestures toward Viggo. “What the fuck is this about?”

“Sir.” The defense leaps to his feet. “Thank you for taking the time to meet with my client.”

“No? No, I’m meeting with  _ you _ . Are you trying to get me disbarred? He can’t be here.”

The defense cleans his glasses, polishes them on his tie. “Mr. Tarasov is the one who called this meeting.” 

“And you didn’t talk him out of it? What the fuck is he paying you for?”

Viggo snaps his fingers, makes a dismissive gesture at his attorney. “Go. We have things to discuss.” 

“Are you really gonna let him…?” but the defense has already wordlessly shuffled across the room and allowed the door slam behind him, leaving Avi and Viggo alone. They stare each other down for a long, silent moment. At last, Avi says, “I don’t know if that clown bothered to tell you, but this is completely fucking improper. I’m gonna call the corrections officers to come get you. Do I need to advise you on the dangers of speaking to me without your counsel present?”

Viggo regards Avi with an eerie warmth. “You speak very well.”

Avi stalls a little in his tracks. Something about this is...off. “Yeah, I’m a lawyer. I should hope so.”

“Your arguments, too, are...compelling. Focused. It is difficult to disagree with your conclusions.” Viggo taps his cigarette on the table. “And you dress well. This is not always the case with DAs.”

Viggo’s been through a few of Avi’s predecessors, so Avi guesses he’d know. “Are we here to make a deal, Mr. Tarasov, or are we not?”

“There will be no deal,” he says in strangely apologetic tones. “I am here simply to make my intentions known. Excuse me. I have dismissed that mouse too quickly.” He holds up the cigarette as high as he can, rattling the chain. “May I have a light?”

_ No, you may not _ , Avi wants to say, because he suddenly feels like he’s a visitor in Viggo’s home, like his presence here is at Viggo’s pleasure, and that puts him off balance. But he’d also like to keep Viggo talking, make him free to say unwise things, so Avi takes his lighter out of his pocket and provides him with a tiny, flickering flame. “And what,” Avi asks, bracing one hand on the table as he leans across to Viggo, “intentions are those?”

Viggo takes the lit cigarette in his lips. “Thank you.” He takes a very long, very slow drag, savoring every second of it. His eyes flutter shut. “I am in the market for new legal counsel.”

“You fired your lawyer?” Not that he blames him. Avi would.

“Not yet.” Viggo leans back in his seat with a groan. “But I cannot wait to be rid of this man. Highly recommended. Went to all the right schools. An enviable record. And in spite of all that, no balls whatsoever.  _ These people. _ No offense intended,” he adds, presumably for Avi’s benefit. “No, I will retain him for the duration of the trial. For this purpose, he is adequate. But he is not what I need long-term. You understand?”

“I don’t know if I’d be thinking long-term if I were in your situation, Mr. Tarasov.”

“Viggo, please,” he insists, sitting up to look Avi in the eye. “And I do not believe that is true. I see you, the little wheels turning in your head all the time with every new argument. Every new piece of evidence. You are always, always looking for your next move.” His hand inches forward on the table, fingertips just grazing Avi’s. “I have a great appreciation for your mind.”

Avi withdraws his hand sharply. He let himself get way too close. “I accept the compliment, Mr. Tarasov,” he says. “But I’m not going to make this easy for you.”

“No, no, no. I do not want you to go easy on me. It would be very exciting for me to see you in action. No, I wish to retain your services. Not for this trial, obviously, but in my own business interests.”

“Is this a joke?”

“I like jokes,” Viggo says, very earnestly. “But no. Nothing can be further from the truth. I have watched your career with particular interest. I believe you possess qualities that would make you very valuable to me. Not to suggest, Avi, that you do not enjoy your work. But just as you will not go easy on me, I will not go easy on you.”

“I’m walking away now. Nice talking to you, Mr. Tarasov.”

“Please, permit me to clarify. This is not a threat. I never make threats. What I am is competitive. I like to win. There is no law against this. You may love this job of yours. But when I am acquitted, you may rethink your position.”

“When I win this case and put you away for the rest of your fucking life,” Avi corrects, “you’re gonna have a lot to rethink.”

_ “ _ Competitive,” Viggo purrs. “We are very alike, Avi.”

“Don’t use my name.”

Viggo raises his voice as he calls to his guards, “We’re done here.” He turns back to Avi, placid and bright-eyed. “Now you know my intentions. I will see you soon, Mr. District Attorney.”

* * *

When the defense puts Viggo on the stand, Avi’s of two minds about it. 

It makes a kind of sense. The defense is doing a lot of work inside the holes in Avi’s case - the lack of direct eyewitnesses, the lack of obvious motive - and Viggo would be the man to fill in those holes.

But putting a criminal defendant on the stand is always a risky endeavor. Viggo is volatile, unpredictable. There’s no telling what he’ll say.

And while he’s up there...

He can admit it. Avi’s excited by the prospect of cross-examining Viggo. He’d like to catch him in a lie or inconsistency up there in front of everybody. He’d like to make him stammer. 

Approaching the witness stand, Avi’s faced with the reality of his mistake. It’s a problem of proximity and also height. Having Viggo look down on him makes something inside of Avi flex and bend.

He pushes it away.

“Mr. Tarasov,” Avi begins. “As the owner of multiple businesses, as an influential figure in local politics, and as a father to a troubled son, you must have very limited free time.”

Viggo seems caught off-guard, but not displeased. “This is correct.”

“So, when you take a meeting at your own home in the early hours of the morning, it must be a matter of particular importance.”

Viggo doesn’t confirm or deny. He just inches forward in his seat, eyes glittering. 

“The defense has established that Mr. Stepanov was a business associate of yours. What was the exact nature of that business relationship?”

Viggo exhales long and slow. His eyes flick skyward, evasive. “I suppose you could call him a headhunter,” Viggo says at last. “A talent scout. I describe to him the specific qualities I am looking for, and he finds me candidates with those qualities.  _ Found _ , excuse me.”

“How many times did Mr. Stepanov provide candidates for you?”

Viggo wavers his hand noncommittally. “Hard to say. Once or twice a month. Starting a few years ago. We shall say 30 or 40 times.”

“Mhm. New candidates every time?”

“Generally.” He grins suddenly. “Not that I am inconstant. But some of the qualities I seek are...rare or ephemeral. Difficult to locate. Even for a man such as Stepanov.”

“What qualities are these?”

The faintest flush spreads over Viggo’s cheekbones. “Ones of character.”

Avi fights to keep his voice smooth and professional as he lands this next blow. “Of those thirty to forty candidates, how many were hired for the purposes of sex work?”

A smile flickers across Viggo’s face, vanishes just as suddenly. “All of them.”

“When you met with Mr. Stepanov in the early hours of the morning on the 14th, did you intend to hire a sex worker from him?”

“I did not. I intended to end our business relationship.”

“Yours and Mr. Stepanov’s?”

“You are very particular,” Viggo chuckles. “Yes, mine and Mr. Stepanov’s.” 

“What made you decide to end that relationship?”

“The purpose of hiring such a service is discretion. Mr. Stepanov threatened to become less than discreet about my preferences unless I paid him a considerable sum.”

“He was blackmailing you.”

“He tried. I never intended to pay. In the interest of transparency,” Viggo adds, leaning against the side of the witness box as though the two of them are talking in a bar somewhere, like they’re co-conspirators, “the preference in question is one for men. He believed that if this information became widely known, it would be devastating to my reputation.” Viggo smiles, shows his teeth. “But I am merely discreet, not ashamed.”

“I see. When Mr. Stepanov told you of his intentions, what did you feel?”

“Disgust. Betrayal, I suppose, although he never held my trust. Anger.”

“Enough to kill him?”

“I do not know what that feels like. Do you?”

This is a gleeful lie.

“Enough that I never wished to see him again. That I will give you.”

“The defense established that when Mr. Stepanov arrived at your penthouse, the two of you engaged in a brief business discussion. This was regarding the attempted blackmail?”

“Yes.”

“What was said between the two of you?”

“He restated his terms. I told him I would not be accepting those terms. He made a series of threats…”

“And the nature of those threats?” Avi interrupts.

“That he would tell what he knew. That my reputation would be tarnished. That I would lose my power. Empty threats. He and I shared a smoke, just as you and I did, Avi.”

Avi freezes.

“And when he was done, I told him once again that I would not pay as he asked. And then he went away, impotent and empty-handed.”

“You claim this was the last time you saw Mr. Stepanov?”

“It was, yes.”

“And he left your penthouse unharmed?”

“He did.”

“Does it strike you as odd that Mr. Stepanov never seemed to arrive on the ground floor?”

Viggo shrugs. “Perhaps, but it would be unwise of me to speculate.”

“Were you surprised to learn that Mr. Stepanov had been found dead so soon after your last meeting?”

“I did not shed any tears, if that is what you mean.”

“It isn’t.”

“I was not surprised, no.”

“Why not?”

“What I learned of Mr. Stepanov in those last hours of our association is that he is an unwise man. He is not content to conduct civilized business, to receive fair pay for services rendered. He must have more. He wishes to bring powerful men low, not because it is a benefit to him in his profession, but because it pleases him to have a powerful man fall beneath him. So it is not so surprising, Avi, that he should bring himself to risk and harm. At someone else’s hands, if not my own.”

“One more question, Mr. Tarasov.” Avi’s heart is thudding in his ears.

“Viggo, please.”

“Mr. Tarasov. Where did that final meeting take place?”

His brow furrows. “In my home, as I have said.”

“Yes. But  _ where  _ in your home? In the lounge? At the bar? In your study? In your bedroom, maybe?”

“Outdoors,” Viggo says. “On the rooftop.”

“By the pool?”

“Yes.”

“I wish to remind the jury that the medical examiner’s report stated that the water found in Mr. Stepanov’s lungs was chlorinated. I have no further questions.”

A soft flurry of activity comes from the gallery, but is quickly silenced. Very calmly, Viggo pushes the microphone away from his face and leans in, over the edge of the witness stand. He beckons Avi closer. 

Almost against his will, Avi takes a step forward.

“You took the long way around, Avi," he says. "Not that I mind. I enjoy our talks.”

“I got where I needed to go.” Avi can feel himself smirking. He makes himself stop. “I knew that Stepanov made you angry. Why would you tell me how?”

“A lesser attorney would assume that he had earned that little gift on his own merits. Not you.” Viggo stands, adjusting the cuffs of his jacket as the bailiff comes to escort him back to his seat. “It is this sort of thing that tells me I must have you.”

* * *

“He  _ can’t _ have me,” Avi says to no one.

It’s a troubling state of affairs. Avi doesn’t know  _ how  _ troubling until he realizes he’s talking to himself.

It’s a function of living alone, he guesses. Maybe a function of the whiskey he’s drinking. 

Avi sinks deep into the couch. He doesn’t have anything to worry about. He’s presenting a solid argument. The evidence backs him up. He has witnesses still to come. Viggo handed him a motive on a silver platter.

_ Why would he do that? _

It’s not worth wondering about. It’s not worth worrying about. Who gives a shit why Viggo is locking himself up and handing Avi the key? 

Mere hours later he learns that his star witness has vanished. It only gets worse from there.

* * *

It doesn’t feel good to limp across a finish line. Avi’s not accustomed to it. 

But he’s been through the wringer. Vanished witnesses, recanting witnesses, evidence found to be fabricated, experts found to be lying. Avi would have accepted a mistrial, could’ve taken that L, but the judge wouldn’t give him one. It fell apart in more ways than Avi could account for. And he’d expected things to fall apart. He knew Viggo Tarasov was Everest.

He just wasn’t ready for the avalanche.

And when the jury returns a verdict of not guilty - because Viggo’s guilt can’t be proven without reasonable doubt, because  _ Avi couldn’t do it _ \- he knows what it is to be crushed.

Viggo, to his credit, is a gracious victor. When the verdict is announced, he closes his eyes, allows himself a small smile. He thanks his counsel under his breath, perfunctory. He rises to clasp the hands of the dark-suited men who have sat behind him all these weeks and months, to tightly embrace his brother and his son.

He walks away a free man.

Avi’s clerks buy him drinks that night. Not in the way he’d hoped. In the sad way. 

Not that he turns them down. He needs them.

He limps home from the bar wanting sleep, wanting another drink, wanting a fresh start.

Part of Avi knows something’s wrong from the second he opens the door. It’s the smell of smoke that gives it away.

The lights are out in his apartment. In the absolute darkness, a small cherry of flame flares.

A voice floats in the dark: “Welcome home, Avi.”

He swallows hard, knuckles going white on the doorknob. “How’s it going, Viggo?”

Viggo chuckles. “Much better, now that we are not so formal.”

“Well, we’re not in court anymore.”

“Indeed, we are not. Take your coat off. Stay a while.”

Avi could run. It’s a possibility. But as his eyes adjust to the dark, he starts to pick out the familiar shapes of his furniture, the unfamiliar shapes of strange men standing in his living room, in his kitchen. If he ran, he knows he wouldn’t get far.

Avi shrugs clumsily out of his overcoat. There’s a goon standing between him and the coat hook and Avi’s weighing his options when the goon helpfully reaches out and pries the coat from Avi’s frozen hand. “Thank you,” Avi says, stupidly.

“Come sit,” Viggo says. He hears one of Viggo’s large, square hands pat a couch cushion.

Avi steps forward cautiously, counting the shadows of Viggo’s men. He gets to eight before the door slams behind him and he’s plunged into new darkness.

It doesn’t matter so much. Avi knows he’s out-manned and he knows his way around his own living room. That’s kinda all he has right now. 

“It’s a nice apartment,” Viggo remarks from somewhere ahead of him in the gloom. “I have said so before, but you are a man of taste. You know this, right?”

Avi’s shin brushes the edge of the coffee table. “I, uh, I try.”

“You succeed. And you invest well. I am no expert, but a look at your finances has been...edifying.”

Avi uses every ounce of self-control to not jump when Viggo seizes his hand in the dark.

“Right this way,” Viggo murmurs, guiding Avi to sit beside him, so close their knees bump together. 

He’s right there, in the dark. Avi can hear him breathing, feel the warmth of his body through the spot where their legs rest against each other, through the roughness of his hands. Avi sits up straight. Blindly, he asks, “What can I do for you, Viggo?”

“This is exactly the right question. What can you do for me?” Viggo’s still clutching his hand, rolling the knuckles between his fingers. “I confess you’ve posed a problem for me, Avi, this whole time. Not because you are such a good prosecutor - although you are - but because while you were looking into my life, peeking into all of my business, I was looking into yours.”

As he speaks, Viggo casually unclasps Avi’s watch from his wrist and lets it slide loosely over his hand, into Viggo’s palm. Avi’s eyes adjust to the point where Avi can see the outline of him as he holds the watch up, squints at it in the dark.

“You could do better,” he remarks, placing the watch on the coffee table with a clink. “Not that it is a bad watch, but it is a budget piece. You know.”

Avi, unfortunately, does know. He rubs the bare spot on his wrist.

“What I saw when I examined your life was an organized man, a purposeful man. Clever and stubborn and confident. Tasteful. Thoughtful. And I thought, this is a waste.” 

Viggo recaptures Avi by the tie and gives him a very serious once-over. “Disheveled,” he tsks. “But then, you have had a hard day.”

He begins loosening the knot of Avi’s tie. 

“Viggo,” he says, trying to keep his voice light. “What are you doing?”

“I thought,” Viggo continues, ignoring him, “here you are, a man with so much to offer, so much potential and yet...no power.”

Avi raises an eyebrow.

“Oh,  _ some  _ power,” Viggo concedes. “But none in my world. You saw, with the trial. Everyone,  _ everyone  _ knew that I had killed that man and you were capable of showing it to be true, beyond doubt. But it did not matter. Because I pledge fealty to a higher power than your courts. This is all.”

Avi’s tie slides loose in Viggo’s fingers and he pulls it free from Avi’s shirt collar with a silken hiss. Avi watches, hypnotized, as Viggo winds the tie around his palm in a neat, coiled loop. “Then you  _ did  _ do it,” Avi says. His mouth is very dry.

Viggo scoffs. “Of course. You knew that.”

“I could argue that you did it. That’s not the same thing.” Avi shifts in his seat as Viggo adjusts the collar of his shirt, smooths it flat. “I was pretty sure you did it. If it wasn’t you, it would’ve been your son. If there was even a chance one of your men had done it, they would have come forward before letting either of you go to trial.”

Viggo’s eyebrows lift thoughtfully. “I suppose you must be open to such possibilities. Hold on a moment, you look ridiculous.” He undoes just the top button of Avi’s shirt and releases him, apparently satisfied. “There is something to your idea. I would not be left holding the bag for anyone other than Iosef. But, ah, no. For such a personal insult, I could only kill Stepanov myself. Drink?”

Viggo gestures to the goon nearest Avi’s bar cart.

“No,” Avi says. “I’m...I’m good. That was true? The motive you gave me.”

“It was. Most of my testimony was truthful. Thank you,” he adds as the bar cart goon passes him a whiskey neat. “You’re sure you won’t?”

“I’m sure. I don’t know if I’m in a position to ask questions…”

Viggo sips, wobbles his hand noncommittally. Avi’s not sure if it’s a comment on Viggo’s receptiveness to questions or the quality of Avi’s liquor. He asks anyway.

“This is what’s been killing me, Viggo:  _ Why?  _ Why would you give me that?”

Viggo sets his whiskey down on the table. Avi can see him a little more clearly now: his brow creased, his eyes lost in genuine thought. “All that was required of me was make it plausible -  _ remotely plausible _ \- when the jury found me not guilty. What I said did not matter. I could have told you that Stepanov and I were great friends and that I had no cause to quarrel with him. This was an option. But at that moment, I chose to tell the truth. Not so shocking, I thought. You already knew.”

“I knew about the rentboys, yeah.” He glances around for a reaction from the men. If there is one, Avi can’t see it.

Viggo winces audibly. “Not my preferred term. I’m a busy man, hiring a professional to perform a service. No need to make it sound...distasteful. But as I said, I am not ashamed. I like what I like. If a man has a problem with this, he can keep his mouth shut or I can kill him. Everyone who matters learned this a long time ago.” 

Viggo drinks his whiskey, slips into a peculiar, serious silence. He’s choosing his next words very carefully. 

“I was truthful with you, Avi,” he says, leaning in, “because I did not want our professional relationship to begin with outright falsehoods.”

_ Our professional relationship.  _ It makes Avi’s pulse quicken with fear, with anger, with excitement. “So, I’m supposed to buy this? You were so impressed with me while I was prosecuting you for murder that you want me to work for you? It doesn’t make sense, Viggo.”

Viggo shrugs. “Is this so difficult to understand? I have hired men who were sent to kill me. This is no different. Talent is talent.” Viggo pats him on the lapels. “Turn around.”

“What?”

Viggo’s voice sinks, soft and strange as he leans in, close enough that Avi can feel his breath. “I am not accustomed to repeating myself. But because you are new, and because I like you, I will.  _ Turn around. _ ”

With more trepidation than he’s ever felt in his life, Avi turns his back on Viggo Tarasov. He tries making a little breathing space between them, but Viggo grabs him by the shoulders and begins to remove Avi’s suit jacket. When Avi speaks, his voice is higher than he wants it to be. “So what...what are the terms of this professional relationship? As you see it.”

Viggo takes a deep, thoughtful breath. “Well, Avi, this depends on you.” He yanks the jacket down around Avi’s elbows, trapping his arms at his sides. “I would wish you to handle my legal affairs. Protect my men from prosecution. Advise me in my legal business ventures. Be available to me, any time of the day or night.” He gives the jacket a slight twist so Avi’s arms are pulled back, pinned. “For any reason. And in return, I will give you an enviable salary. Impressive resources. Connections of the kind that made me a free man today. Straighten your arms, please.”

Viggo slides Avi’s suit jacket the rest of the way off, tosses it to one of his men.

Avi turns to look over his shoulder at Viggo. “What happens if I turn you down?”

Firmly, but not unkindly, Viggo turns him to face away again. “I am not a man easily deterred. If I said that I would have you, it is because I intend to have you. I do not say such things lightly.” His hands settle on Avi’s shoulders and start to squeeze.

Avi suppresses a grunt. “You’ve just told me some pretty incriminating things.”

“Mhmm.”

“So it seems to me, Viggo, that unless…” Viggo’s thumbs work hard at a tight muscle in his shoulder and for a moment all he can do is let out a long, shuddering breath. “...Unless the two of us come to an agreement tonight, I’m not getting out alive.”

“True,” Viggo concedes. “I have told you these things in confidence, Avi. If you were to reject my offer, I would be fearful that my admiration was misplaced. I would do what must be done to secure your silence. But I know a little bit about you, Avi, and I think that if you accept my offer, it will not be because of this.”

Something in Avi’s upper back cracks. “Oh no?”

Viggo lets up on him a little, claps his hands on Avi’s shoulders. “Let us pretend,” he whispers, breath curling hot against the back of Avi’s neck. “Let’s pretend that if you turn me down, nothing will happen. Absolutely nothing. My men and I, we will walk away. You will never see me again. You will carry on, just as you have, and you will continue to be good at the work you do. You will win other cases. People will be impressed with you. But when someone like me comes along, when you have the opportunity to hold real power in your hands, it will always slip through your fingers. The outcome of these cases will be predetermined by unseen forces, and nothing you do, no matter how inspired, will matter. These are the consequences, the best ones I can give to you. This is what will happen if I do not hurt you at all.”

Avi swallows hard. “And if I agree? What happens then?”

“You will do the job as I have described it to you. If you do well, I will give you more to do.” Behind him, he hears the click of a lighter, smells Viggo lighting another cigarette. “You will see things, terrible and strange. No day will be like another. My name will open peculiar doors and before long, yours will too. You will have freedom. The freedom that power brings. The freedom to take what I already have and make it yours. And what I have is this town. In the palm of my hand. In the palm of  _ your  _ hand,” he says, just above a whisper, “if you will only take it.”

Avi tells him, “You don’t have this town.”

Viggo takes him by the shoulder, forces Avi to face him. His face is curious, wreathed in smoke. “No?”

“You own a lot of this city,” Avi allows. “But the Italians still have their turf. The Bowery King runs the subways and the sewers. And The Continental is its own thing. You don’t own this town until every door is open to you.” Avi clears his throat. “I can’t fix that. But if you need more men, I can get you the ones that are in prison right now. And if you need money, I can show you how to get more out of what you have. That’s the kind of thing I can do for you, Viggo.”

Viggo looks him over. Thinking. Measuring. 

To fill the silence, Avi adds, “You were right about me. What I find compelling.”

Viggo inches in closer, the cigarette between his lips lighting the space between them. “I know you, Avi. Or I like to think I do. And you know me too. What I will do to someone who has wounded me or what I will do for the ones I love. My strengths, my weaknesses. My preferences.” He cradles Avi’s jaw in his hand, pushes his mouth slightly open with the calloused pad of his thumb and Avi lets him,  _ lets him _ . “Is it not strangely comforting, to be known?”

He takes a long drag of the cigarette and sets it down to smolder in the ashtray. He takes Avi’s face in both hands, holds him steady as their lips brush while Viggo breathes the smoke into him, while Avi accepts it.

Avi breathes deep, lets go. Some of the smoke drifts back to Viggo, most of it swirls between them and floats upward. Avi feels like he just signed something.

Viggo’s hand slips from Avi’s face, retrieves the cigarette from the ashtray. “I hope that was not too forward.”

“Can I…?” Avi croaks. “Can I think about this?”

Viggo chuckles, pats him on the cheek. “I am hiring you to think, Avi. If you did not give my offer careful consideration, I would be insulted.”

The pat on Avi’s cheek becomes a warm and steady hand, a thumb that slides under his eye, along his cheekbone.

“But,” Viggo tells him, so low Avi can feel the rumble of his voice, “you must make a good decision.”


End file.
